


Even the Best Fall Down Sometimes

by tae9909



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tae9909/pseuds/tae9909
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy hasn’t cried since the day his mother was floated and his sister was sentenced to death.  Granted, that was only a year ago, but before that it had been forever.  He had always been good at bottling up his emotions, or translating them into anger – even after he witnessed his mother’s execution, he’d mostly just hit things and screamed, allowing himself maybe five minutes of guilty, stinging tears before pushing everything down until he was numb.</p><p>Set after 1x08, Day Trip - Bellamy has a panic attack and Clarke talks him through it (and cuddles him afterwards)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even the Best Fall Down Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for this fandom so go easy on me!! 
> 
> :)

Bellamy hasn’t cried since the day his mother was floated and his sister was sentenced to death. Granted, that was only a year ago, but before that it had been forever. He had always been good at bottling up his emotions, or translating them into anger – even after he witnessed his mother’s execution, he’d mostly just hit things and screamed, allowing himself maybe five minutes of guilty, stinging tears before pushing everything down until he was numb.

Now, Bellamy is crying again. There’s been a lump in his throat all day, a pulsing beneath his temples partially from his injuries but mostly from his own damn thoughts. After he killed Dax, he thought he was okay. He was so close to losing it and snapping, but he breathed through it and focused on Clarke beside him, until everything was numb. He was as okay as he could be.

If he were stronger, that would have been it. He would have buried his pain at the base of that tree and shaken off the numbness and never have thought about Dax again.

He needs to be stronger. Not only is he a warrior, he’s a leader. His people need him, and they need him to be strong.

He isn’t strong.

It isn’t even dark yet and he’s sitting in his tent and staring at his hands.

He tries to shut out the thoughts, but it’s impossible. All day, he’s been reliving the fight. Dax’s screams. The feeling of the cold metal in his fingers, the tension in his wrist, pushing the bullet hard into Dax’s dirty neck. The squish as it broke the skin, Dax’s final screams. Hot blood spilling on his hands. So much blood. It’s still under his fingernails.

Right now, he needs to be strong. He takes a deep, shaky breath and closes his eyes, tilting his face up to the sky.

Even if he hadn’t severed their jugulars, he also killed 300 on the Ark. And for absolutely nothing. Although not literally, their blood is also on his hands.

He isn’t strong. He can’t do this. How is he supposed to keep his people safe if he can’t even get a grip on himself?

He’s been pardoned for his crimes, and that’s the worst part.

At least wrecking the radio would have been justified if Jaha wanted him dead.

He breaks everything he touches.

Another flashback of Dax bleeding out on the ground in front of him, and he chokes on the lump in his throat.

He can’t breathe.

His eyes are burning and then his vision’s blurring and then he’s sobbing. Huge, ugly, wracking sobs. Gasping for air.

His chest is so tight, and he’s dizzy, and he can’t breathe.

Just like the 300 people on the Ark couldn’t breathe when their oxygen was cut.

Maybe he’s dying. Maybe they’ll find him in his tent and bury him in the woods and pass the leadership position on to someone who actually deserves it. Someone strong.

He’s making so much noise, but they can’t hear him. They’re all eating dinner and talking and laughing and not crying alone in their tents.

God, he’s so pathetic.

He puts his head between his knees and tries to breathe, but it’s useless. The sobs are still rattling through his chest and forcing all the air out of his lungs.

“Bellamy, are you in here? Do you want me to bring you some food?”

It’s Clarke. She’s about to poke her head into his tent and she’ll see him like this and there’s noting he can do about it because he can’t use his goddamn voice to tell her to fuck off.

“Bellamy?”

Her face appears between the tent flaps at the opposite end of his tent, but he can barely see her through his tears.

“Bellamy? Oh God, are you okay?”

Clarke doesn’t hesitate at the entrance to his tent. She doesn’t get embarrassed and leave, or consider that maybe Bellamy needs to be alone. No – Clarke goes into medical mode and rushes to Bellamy’s side, tilting up his chin with a gentle hand, frantically taking in the scene before her.

Bellamy wants to disappear into the ground and die. Clarke will never look at him the same now that she’s seen him like this.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, and she sounds genuinely upset and concerned, and he’s pretty sure she’s looking into his eyes. “Everything’s going to be okay. Can you hear me? Listen to me Bellamy.”

She lets his chin fall and instead places her hands around his – which are clasped hard around his legs.

“You’re having a panic attack. You’re going to be okay. If you can focus enough to breathe through it, it’ll be okay before you know it.”

What is she talking about? He _can’t_ breathe, that’s the whole problem. He’s trying damn hard to breathe, and it’s not working – he wants to tell Clarke that, but he can’t speak.

“I’m right here, Bellamy. You have to focus. I’m right here. Listen to me.”

Her voice is a little shaky, and when Bellamy looks up, Clarke’s crying too. She rubs a comforting hand on his back as she tries harder to pull him out of his panic.

“Try taking slow breaths. Here, count with me: in 2, 3, out 2, 3. In 2, 3, out 2, 3.”

Maybe if he could stop crying so hard, this would be easier.

“Bellamy you’re so tense, just relax. Relax your muscles.”

She’s still rubbing his back, and the warmth of her hand through his t-shirt grounds him. Clarke is something to hold on to in this ocean of pain.

She’s so _warm_ , and alive, and she smells so good – Bellamy doesn’t deserve this.

“Look at me and copy my breathing,” she says, after the panic has started to subside a little, and although his throat still feels like it has the diameter of a pencil, he doesn’t feel like he’s dying quite so much any more.

He looks up into Clarke’s face, blurry through his tears, and breathes with her. They’re holding hands now, and they’re both crying, and the rise and fall of her chest is steady and even and maybe, just maybe, Bellamy’s going to be okay.

“You’re okay, Bellamy. Everything’s okay,” she says when he closes his eyes and finally takes a deep breath.

“Thank you,” he chokes out. His voice is raw and wrecked from the sobbing, and it comes out as barely more than a whisper.

But Clarke hears, and she smiles even though she looks like she’s trying not to cry harder, then leans forward and uses the pad of her thumb to brush away some of the tears from his red, itchy cheeks.

Human touch feels so good. Sure, Bellamy gets laid all the time – there are more than enough horny girls in the camp – but there’s never any _feeling_ behind any of it. This – Clarke taking care of him, rubbing his back, talking him through his breakdown – this is something. He’s not sure what exactly, but he feels warm and fuzzy in a way usually reserved for only Octavia.

Still, though, this is embarrassing as hell and he half wishes Clarke hadn’t found him in the first place.

“Do you want me to bring you anything?” she says quietly, afraid to break this fragile… _okayness_ that they’ve come to. Bellamy shakes his head.

“Do you – do you want me to stay for a while?” Clarke asks cautiously.

Bellamy doesn’t say anything, but his expression is enough.

Clarke takes off her coat and scooches over next to him, puts her head on his shoulder. Her left hand finds its way into his right, and the gesture has more meaning and intimacy than any of the casual sex he’s partaken in while on the ground.

Clarke cares about him.

_Clarke cares about him._

“I can’t do this Clarke. I can’t. I’m not strong enough,” he whispers. Nobody – not even Octavia – has ever seen him like this, with his guard down and his feelings on display.

He’s not even sure he’s ever been this vulnerable before.

“You can do it. You’re so strong. I mean, it’s okay to break down every once in a while.”

“I’m not strong.”

“Yes, Bellamy, you are. I know you might not feel like it right now, but there’s a reason you’re our leader. There’s a reason we all look up to you. And you will feel like it again. It’ll take time, but it’ll happen. And I’ll be here for you whenever you need me.”

He’s too exhausted to argue with her.

He still feels shaky and a little dizzy, but the pain is mostly gone and he just feels… empty. It’s different from the all-encompassing numbness he feels from pushing down his feelings – it’s like instead of ignoring the pain, he’s purged it.

It’ll be back, he’s sure, but for now he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get.

Right now, that reprieve is the emotional void in his chest and the warmth of Clarke pressing against his shoulder.

“It won’t make you feel any better,” Clarke says quietly into his neck, “but I’m not really okay either.” Her hot breath on his skin makes him shiver, and her words inspire in him a rush of protectiveness. He wants to shield Clarke from the world, to make sure _he’s_ always the one hurting and she gets to be okay. Bellamy knows he deserves to hurt – he’s a shitty person. Clarke, though – Clarke doesn’t deserve any of this.

He wraps an arm around her shoulder and watches as tears fall into her lap.

“You should stay here tonight,” Bellamy says.

 

She does.

They fall into his bed just as the sun is setting – while the camp’s still abuzz with after dinner excitement and after they’ve heard, on several occasions, people calling their names to ask them questions.

“It’s hard being a leader,” Clarke says, “but it’s not quite as hard when there are two of us.”

“Are you challenging my authority?” Bellamy asks, but he knows it’s true. Most of the respect the campers have for him is derived from fear, but their respect for Clarke is – well, respect. _He_ needs Clarke, too, to keep him from tearing himself – and the camp – apart.

 

Bellamy takes his shirt off and Clarke blushes, and it’s just about the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He kicks his pants off too, and she pointedly looks anywhere but at him as he climbs into bed.

Clarke keeps her t-shirt on, but shyly pulls off her pants while Bellamy’s facing the other way. He wants to look when he hears her undo the clasp on her belt, but he restrains himself.

He can’t remember the last time he’s slept in a bed with a girl without fucking her first.

“Clarke?” he asks after she’s crawled into bed and he’s turned to face her.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you, again.”

She leans over and kisses his cheek.

He doesn’t know how he’ll feel tomorrow, but for right now, he’s okay.

They fall asleep as far from each other as Bellamy’s small bed allows, but when he wakes up from a nightmare in the middle of the night, Clarke’s pressed into his back, one warm little hand splayed across his bare chest.


End file.
